Kerstverhaal

Er waren eens...

2 broers die Agnus en Linus heetten. Ze woonden in een land in het noorden, waar het in de winter altijd vroor en er een dik pak sneeuw lag. Agnus was de oudste en Linus de jongste. Ze woonden alleen met hun vader in een huisje in het bos. In dat huisje was het altijd gezellig. ’s Morgens vroeg reed hun vader weg op zijn paard, op weg naar de grote stad om zijn werk te doen. Agnus en Linus gingen dan op pad, het bos in, op zoek naar hout voor het haardvuur. In de middag kookten ze groentensoep in een grote pan op het vuur en sneden ze dikke plakken brood met boter. Als vader ’s avonds thuiskwam, rook hij van verre de heerlijke geuren van de soep en kon hij haast niet wachten zijn zoons te zien.

Als ze met zijn drieën aan tafel van de soep aten, vader, Linus en Agnus, vertelde vader verhalen uit de stad. Soms gingen ze over Ida, de bakkersvrouw die witte haren had van het rondstuivende bloem. En soms over Thoren van de boekwinkel, wiens brilletje zo ver op zijn neus stond, dat vader steeds bang was dat het eraf zou glijden. Als vader met Thoren praatte, stak hij altijd zijn hand een beetje uit om de bril op te kunnen vangen.

Linus was zelf nog nooit in de stad geweest. Hij kon zich niets leukers voorstellen dan een keer met vader mee te gaan, naar daar waar zoveel verschillende mensen woonden en ’s avonds de lichtjes in de huizen brandden. Agnus was ouder dan Linus en was al een paar keer in de stad geweest. Hij schepte daar altijd over op en plaagde Linus over dat hij nog te klein was. Maar Agnus vond de stad niet eens leuk. Hij zei dat het er vies was en dat de mensen stonken. Linus geloofde daar niets van. Hij wist zeker dat het er mooi was en dat de mensen er heel aardig waren en heus niet stonken.

Vader vertelde dat nu het gauw kerstmis zou worden, er midden op het plein een grote kerstboom stond met wel duizend lampjes erin. De piek van de kerstboom had de vorm van een kerstengel met twee grote witte vleugels. En op kerstavond, precies om middernacht, kwam de kerstengel tot leven en zong een prachtig lied. Linus wilde natuurlijk niets liever dan de kerstboom en de engel in het echt te zien. Maar hij was nog te klein. Het was een lange tocht door het bos en vader vond het te gevaarlijk om Linus mee te nemen.

Iedere avond vroeg Linus: “Vader, mogen we alsjeblieft met je mee naar de stad om

Ida de bakkersvrouw met het witte haar te zien? En Thoren van de boekwinkel met de bril die bijna afglijdt? En kerstboom met de lichtjes en de kerstengel?” Vader zuchtte dan en schudde zijn hoofd. “Nee Linus, hoe vaak moet ik het nog tegen je zeggen? Je bent nog te klein. Als je groot bent mag je mee.”

Linus vond het niet leuk. Maar er zat maar één ding op. Hij moest wachten tot hij groot was. Maar dat duurt lang! Iedere avond als hij in slaap viel, wenste hij dat snel groot zou worden zodat hij naar de stad kon.

Zo gingen de dagen voorbij en werd het bijna kerst. Linus was dan misschien te klein om de kerstboom in de stad te zien, ze hadden wel hun eigen kleine kerstboom in het huisje. Linus en Agnus hadden samen lampjes en kerstballen erin gehangen. En vader had er een piek op gezet, een kerstengel net zo één als die in de stad. Op de dag voor kerstavond, trokken Linus en Agnus er vroeg op uit om extra hout te halen voor de extra lekkere soep die ze voor kerst gingen maken. Linus liep door de sneeuw met een bosje hout onder zijn arm achter Agnus aan. “Schiet eens op, kleine!” riep Agnus “Een beetje sneller graag!” Linus vond het helemaal niet leuk. Agnus liep steeds verder voorop en Linus kon hem bijna niet meer zien. “Agnus, wacht nou!” riep hij. En toen opeens hoorde hij heel hard “kraaaaak, plons.” “Agnus!” riep Linus. Maar Agnus gaf geen antwoord. Linus liet het hout vallen en rende naar de plek waar hij Agnus voor het laatst zag. “Agnus!” Opeens bleef hij stokstijf stilstaan. Voor hem zag hij een gat. En in dat gat zag hij water. Agnus was door het ijs gezakt. “Agnus!” riep hij nog eens. Linus beefde van de schrik, wat moest hij doen? Hij keek om zich heen en zag een dikke tak liggen. Gauw, dacht hij. Hij pakte de tak en stak hem in het water. Hij voelde hoe een hand de tak greep en hield de tak stevig vast. “Trekken Agnus!” riep hij. Agnus kwam boven water en trok zich omhoog aan de tak. Linus kon hem maar net houden. Agnus bibberde vreselijk. “K-k-koud,” zei hij. Zijn lippen hadden een blauwe kleur. Linus deed zijn jas uit en sloeg die om Agnus heen. “Kom, we gaan snel naar huis.” Eenmaal thuis maakte Linus een warm haardvuur voor Agnus, zodat hij weer op kon warmen. “Gaat het alweer een beetje beter?” vroeg Linus. Agnus knikte. “Dank je, Linus. Je hebt mijn leven gered.”

Toen vader die avond thuis kwam, vertelde Agnus hem het hele verhaal. En vader zei: “Je bent heel dapper geweest, Linus. En als je zo dapper bent, ben je wat mij betreft ook groot genoeg om mee te gaan naar de stad.” Linus kon zijn oren niet geloven. “Echt waar?” vroeg hij. “Echt waar,” lachte vader.

En zo reden op kerstavond vader, Agnus en Linus met zijn drieën naar de stad op het paard. Het was een lange tocht, maar Linus was maar wat blij dat hij mee mocht. Net voor middernacht kwamen ze aan bij de kerstboom op het grote plein. De boom was inderdaad heel groot, en hij had wel duizend lichtjes net als vader had gezegd. Rondom de boom hadden alle mensen van de stad zich verzameld. Daar was Ida van de bakkersvrouw met het witte haar. En daar was Thoren met het brilletje dat bijna van zijn neus af gleed. Ze zwaaiden naar hen en Linus zwaaide terug. Toen de klok twaalf uur sloeg, werd het muisstil. Alle mensen keken omhoog, naar de piek van de kerstboom in de vorm van een kerstengel. Plotseling begonnen de vleugels te klapperen. De ogen van de engel gingen langzaam open. Zachtjes zong hij, eerst heel zacht en toen steeds harder. De stem van de kerstengel was mooi, zo mooi. Zoiets moois had Linus nog nooit gehoord. Hij keek naar de mensen om hem heen en wist zeker dat ook zij nog nooit zoiets moois hadden gehoord. Ida de bakkersvrouw met het witte haar had zelf tranen in haar ogen. Toen het lied afgelopen was, deed de kerstengel zijn ogen dicht en veranderde weer terug in een gewone piek. Linus voelde zich een beetje moe. Vader tilde hem terug op het paard. “Dag allemaal,” zei hij en zwaaide naar de mensen van de stad. “Dag,” gaapte ook Linus. Op de terugweg naar huis viel hij in slaap op het paard. Maar voor Linus helemaal in slaap viel, wist hij één ding heel zeker: dit was de allermooiste kerstnacht, die hij ooit had beleefd.

Einde

After the storm

As they kept on walking and walking she could not remember the shape and texture of colours. The way a red velvet cloak contrasts with other colours in a room, satiated and soft. The way sunlight turns a young leaf into a transparent kind of green. And the beauty of those green leafs when standing under a tree looking up to them against the blue sky. All there was now, was the vastness of the white snow, contrasted by black mountaintops piercing through. Even the sky was one giant bulk of whiteness, weighing heavy on her head, forcing the colours out from her memories. She could not count the days they had been walking through this landscape. Her feet did not belong to her body any more. They walked mechanically, without a will being imposed on them, following his pace and movements as he walked in front of her. Had not his cloak been a dark chocolate type of brown at one point? The frost had turned it white, like everything else. His silhouette moved at a constant pace. They had to survive. She fell. A sharp pain through her right knee. She wanted to cry out, but feared the snow would soak up the sound. He moved farther and farther away from her. But then he froze. And turned. She saw his silhouette coming closer. And then everything went to white.

She woke up feeling cold. The light of the fire flickered on the wall of the cave. He was sitting close to the fire, with his back turned to her. He moved his arm, stirring something. He was warming snow into water. Water, she needed that. She produced a sound. He turned around. Brown. She remembered now. His hair was brown and curly and his eyes were brown as well. His skin and lips were teared by the frost. It looked painful. Did she look like that as well? He brought a spoon of water to her lips. She tried to swallow some. "How are you feeling?" he asked, with a brown voice. "Cold," she answered. He smiled slightly. She thought about him carrying her through the snow. "I'm so sorry," she said. He said nothing and gazed into the fire. Shadows danced across the walls. "I wish I was stronger" she whispered. He shook his head and turned his gaze towards her, as he drew closer, slowly. She felt a panic rising from her belly. "Don't", she said sharply, feeling weak. But he didn't listen and just smiled, eyes twinkling as he drew even closer. "Don't worry", he said "it's just to keep you warm." She wanted to protest still. But then everything turned to brown as he placed soft breaths of warm air onto her cheeks, her neck, her nose until he finally breathed life back into her lips. She soaked up his warm breath into her lungs, warming her from the inside. Her heart raced in her chest. There was no more coldness left in her body now.

Before the storm

Leaves

Through a rain of golden leaves
Rustling against the open sky
I cycle
Towards a man dressed in black

As I almost hit him with my bike
He draws back his black hood
And shows me a smile made of pale white skin

A letter to Jane

Dear Jane,

How I love your work. Reading your work is like listening to the voice of a women's heart. You are witty, honest, clever, refined. I do have difficulties following you sometimes. This is because you lived in such different times than mine. Your language was baroque, like your music. If only you knew how you never cease to inspire in spite of that. Your stories, the desires of your heroines, they are universal. I love how, in spite of your own situation and the "true" stories surrounding your life, there seems to be a sense of hope. Instead of turning bitter, like some writers do, your characters do not have to suffer for it. I try to imagine you. Sitting by the window, looking out upon green hills and grey skies. Dreaming. Simply dreaming. Your hand, holding a pencil. Your mouth, slightly opened. Most artists I have come to know in my life, were kind of mean and distant. Like they belonged to an exclusive club that you could never give the right password to in order to enter. They could never be great artists unless they learned how to be kind, generous, loving, warmhearted. That is how I see you. It speaks from the words on your pages.
If we were living in the same era, I think we could have been friends. How I would have admired you for your courage to choose for love instead of wealth. To choose a profession that everyone told you was not fit for a women. We could have gone to balls together (I love that fact that you liked to dance). We could have made long walks, sharing thoughts about life and love. How I wish to know more of you. How I wish to make those walks and ask you so many questions about writing and happiness and the way you view your life and works. Would you have done anything different? Would you rather have lived in my time than yours? What would you think of my time? We have freedom of love and equal rights now. Could you ever have imagined that? The manners of society have become much more vulgar though. You would be shocked. We live at a much faster pace. A lot of women, including myself sometimes, read your books and long for a life like that. They long for quietness, seclusion, searching for the right words, being courted, hiding their skin behind long dresses, not giving away their love so easily. But I know you write from that longing yourself. The life in your time was not necessarily like it was in your books.

I wonder so often what you would write about were you living in this day and age. This, I think, is one of my most important questions to you.

Know that reading your stories makes my heart swell in my chest. It feels as big as the sky. You have managed to touch me like that, even after a few hundred years. I thank you for that. Thank you for showing me the greatness that a women can achieve by following her heart.

Yours truly,
Angela

Children vs adults

I have started my new education since a few weeks: the adventure of becoming a primary school teacher. It is hard. I don't have a lot of time left for myself now anymore with heaps of homework to do. I'm thinking about getting an easier job with less hours. My motivation for work is lacking, which results in frustration and arguments with my boss again. All I want to do is study.

I always knew that. I am so much more happy studying than working. I believe I have made the right choice in embarking on this journey. My life is going in the right direction now, I can feel it. I come home from school at 23.00 feeling alive and inspired instead of sleepy. I am grateful.

There is this one question though, that I find unanswered in school. We talk so much about these children. About the way they discover the world by playing, learn by playing. We say: by playing with this colourful cube the child gets to know colours, learns of the texture, of geometrical shapes, of building something by adding other cubes. We need to create a safe and challenging environment for the child to be able to explore.

We cover all the ways in which the child can learn and all the while I keep thinking: to do what? To what end? The child gets to learn all these things and then what? I feel like the common notion in our society is that we teach these children a lot of things and then 'poof' they are ready. They are fully-bred grown-ups. Grown-ups do not create safe environments for each other. On the contrary, they can make each other's lives miserable. Life is hard out there, we say, so you better come prepared with a good education. Does that mean they stop exploring? Stop learning? Stop looking at colours and feeling the texture of things because they already know? They can make money now? They can go to war and get killed? They can stop being curious at the beggar at the end of the street and ignore him?

Children make for much better citizens than grown-ups, I believe. They are innocent, open, spontaneous, courageous, wild, dependent, curious. I feel more akin to them then to most grown-ups. Looking at the children in my classroom it is so hard for me to believe that one of them could be a killer, an abuser, a greedy, manipulative person. They are truly innocent. We pour so much hope and prospect into them. Why do we stop at this when we are fully grown? Why do we stop seeing hope and prospect in each other? There is also always this notion that a child represents hope. Hope of that child becoming a better person than yourself.

But this distinction between a child and a man doesn't work for me. At what point do you give up hope and why? Everyone has been a child, hasn't they? (this is another funny thing that comes with this education, I keep on fantasizing about people as children: Geert Wilders, Silvester Stallone etc.). I do not see why we should stop being children: exploring, playing, being innocent, curious, naive, looking at colours, feeling textures, depending on others.

For me this education at becoming a teacher means to create continuity between myself as a child and myself as a grown-up. For a long time I was under the impression that I was ready learning, because everyone expected me to stop studying and make a living for myself. I felt unhappy working. It felt like it had nothing to do with me, or with my education. But this was just reality. At some point you stop being a child and become responsible. You work hard for a boss that mistreats you because you have to make money and it is just the way the world works. You stop being a child.

Can you imagine the difference? In becoming a teacher, I become a child again. I learn, I help out, I am curious, I am creative, I am innocent. I can pass on my knowledge, my education finally makes sense, because I get to teach these children what I know. I get to express myself to them, and have them express themselves to me. Teaching is the same as hoping. A teacher recently asked us if you have to be an idealist to become a teacher. A lot of people disagreed and said it would be too hard to be an idealist and a teacher at the same time, because you cannot actually cause change in a child. I think they are wrong. I think being a teacher is intrinsically idealist. By helping these children to grow up we expect and hope for them to create a better world than the one we have created. We never give up on a child. And so we should never stop seeing each other as children, no matter how old we are.

The artist part II/The letter I wish to receive

I am just going to pretend now that in response to my previous post I would receive this letter, written by a person I admire. I truly recommend this to anyone, writing yourself a letter of encouragement in the name of your heroes. Here we go.

Dear Angela,

The desire for creation you carry within is a gift. And you should never consider it as anything else than a gift. It is given to you by God, the greatest creator of all times. It is only natural that we feel the desire to create, since we ourselves are created in the image of the greatest creator Himself. It is given to you purely for your own enjoyment. It is not a burden, it is not a task, it does not come with any obligation other than the freedom to enjoy and treasure it whenever you can.

The first thing an artist does, is acknowledge this desire, know that it is there and feed it. This is something you, according to your writing, already do. So this is good. Keep in mind to always treasure and nurture it whenever you can. Keep on doing the things that awake this desire in you, watch good movies, read good books, take walks in nature, spend time alone, learn new things, listen to good music, eat good food. Do not waste your time with things or people who drain your energy instead of adding to it. This is the foundation for every artist. Your desire is your motivation to create.

You probably already know, it is a lot like being in love. There are butterflies in your stomach, you have energy, there's an almost painful longing inside of you. At times you feel like you can take on the entire world and at other times you despair at the idea that the person you love will reject you. Love and creation are very similar. Your heart recognizes them as the same. Isn't it true that when you are in love you are at your most creative? This is why artists speak about a muse. Our muse evokes in us the desire to create.

You speak of your visions. There is no creation without a vision, every great artist could tell you that. So it is excellent that you have visions of what your work of art is supposed to express. But keep in mind, visions are very abstract. A vision is a whole, it is a complete work, it is a feeling. If you start to work, try to separate it from the words and notes. A word or note, or a combination of them is not a vision. You cannot force your vision into existence. You must try and let it guide you on your way. You want it your first words to be as perfect as your vision. But your vision is not a practical thing. The strange thing is, you can only reach it by letting it go. Sometimes, in the midst of your work, without expecting it, something great happens and it is exactly like it was in your vision only the location or the words or the music is different. By letting go I do not mean give them up. No, please don't give them up. Try to reach them only don't try to force them. I know, this is difficult, very difficult.

You have to take risks. If you think that we were not afraid or not thinking that we were incompetent like you, you are gravely mistaken. All that is left from us is the good work, but we have written pages filled with rubbish, experienced great frustration and despair. I know you say that we were younger than you, but are you really going to let something like that stand in your way? What about the things you have already done? The pages you have already written? You act as if you have done nothing about your desire to create up until now, but this is not true. You have done a lot already. Your wish is to make it more substantial, to spend more time on it. This can be arranged. In order to overcome incompetence, insecurity, shyness you simply need to practice. Everything gets better with practice. Never stop, just try. I know there is frustration and pain ahead, but isn't the pain and frustration of not even trying much worse? Try not to forget there is not only frustration and pain, but also relieve and joy and inspiration and love once you keep going.

You say your biggest fear is to die not having become the artist you wish to be. But this is not true. Your biggest fear when you grew up was dying without having loved. Keep in mind that however things may turn out, you have loved and been loved most profoundly. This is the most important thing in your life, yes, more important even than you being an artist.

I know that in the creative area you have met people who would take others down to get to where they want to be. People who tried to force you into their idea of an artist. People with authority who told you you could never fit the profile for an artist. You have not yet met many good examples of what you believe an artist should be.

But I tell you, you never have to be anything other than yourself. We were ourselves. If anyone tried to tell us different, we stuck to our believes. And so do you. You just have to shout them out some louder. Louder. Do not be ashamed of your believes and feelings and stand up for them. Even if nobody agrees with you.

So, now that you have read this, go out and create. Stick to what you know. Finish what you start. Start with a few words from your desire to create, let your visions guide you and don't stop until you have something substantial. Throw it away if it is not good and start over. Start over all the time. I believe in you. You have it in you to become a great artist. Don't let anybody ever tell you different.

Yours truly,
your heroe